best of wives and best of women
by Twins 'n Fandoms
Summary: in the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. and the peace catches him off-guard. (even if it's just for a moment.)


in the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. for just a moment.

one day, he simply wakes up.

the first rays of sunshine break through the darkness and light up his room in soft yellow hues.

(it's not enough, though. shadows and darkness still linger around. he doesn't want to focus on that.)

yet for a moment, he forgets the trouble and the mess surrounding him and his life. he forgets the damned papers. he forgets his mistakes. he forgets his destroyed reputation, his shattered legacy he tried so hard to built. he forgets the crushing guilt of his own son's death. he forgets everything.

the good and the bad. everything.

it's forgotten.

he takes a breath, and lies still, his wife on his chest, breaths even and soft as she sleeps. dear sweet eliza, her silky hair spilled across the blankets, her eyes fluttered close, the soft light making her look like a sleeping angel with a halo.

it's quiet, he thinks. he doesn't think why he just notices this now. he hates the quiet. aside from jefferson, the silence was his mortal enemy. he fought and let his mouth shoot off, spewing words and sentences and pride and intelligence just to fill it.

but for the first time in his life, he appreciates the sound of silence. blissful, merciful silence and peace, hand in hand.

because in the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. even for just a moment.

he waits, time flowing irrationally in minutes, hours, seconds, blurring together. he sits up slowly, rising, afraid to wake her from her tiny bubble of peace, sleep. he changes into a new set of clothes, he goes down, the same routine every morning, everyday.

(there's the nagging thought that it really isn't the same. not anymore.)

he gets a drink. a mug of coffee, to be precise. he sits down on his desk, his hand already much more alert than the rest of his body and almost about to implode from the need to write.

he doesn't stop it, it's a nervous habit of his that he tried to stop three years ago, an annoying tic, something entirely now second nature to him, to reach out for a paper and a pen like one would reach for a hand of a beloved one. it's almost comforting. it's him and only in his world, his mind foggy with sleep, his pen making comforting scratches on the paper almost rhythmically, lulling him into a trance.

done. finito. finished. he examines it and almost immediately rewrites it again. his pen spews words, filling pages with bold and elegant strokes. not enough. she deserved more.

"alexander, come back to sleep."

he hears her, lifts his head and turns to acknowledge her. he wants to greet her, tell her good morning and tell her to go back to sleep, to kiss her, to hold her in his arms as she sits up on bed, groggy and sleepy as she lits a candle to illuminate the room.

instead, he stifles a yawn and turns back to his writing. it would have to do.

he stands up and heads towards the door, opening it, the creaking waking eliza and taking her out of her sleepiness. "alexander?"

(she is a woman who experienced pain like no other and continued to fight on. her face was marred with old age, but to him, she still looks as young, as beautiful, as radiant and as lovely as the night they first met.)

"i just have an early meeting out of town," he says in a low, tired tone. "go back to sleep, please betsey?" he says hesitantly, as he steps aside and lets his feet guide him to her. almost immediately, she sits up and puts her arms around his neck.

"come back to bed," she says sleepily. "that would be enough."

his shoulders drop as he leaned in to her and he drops a kiss on her forehead. "i'll be back before you know i'm gone."

"come back to sleep."

"betsey, this meeting's at dawn."

she sighs and hesitantly removes her arms and blows out the candle once more, as he moves towards the door. "well, i'm going back to sleep."

he takes one last look at her, one last image of her to take with him. "hey."

she slowly sits up and hums, her eyes half-lidded, half-awake.

i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you, his mind whispers like a mantra as his throat closes up altogether, his mouth dry. i love you i love you i love you i love you.

the full weight of what he's doing hits him, like the same hurricane that left him homeless. when has he been so reckless and careless? when has he tested to step out into the hurricane?

(what are you doing, hamilton?)

(i don't know.)

maybe it has always been that way. maybe he always lost sight of the things that are important. his wife. his family. his son. his friends.

but he has to face it. charge recklessly into the quagmire. like what seemed an entire lifetime ago. a different story, a different page on a different part of his life.

the light in the hallway lets a strip of light from the door escape. he sees eliza hamilton, his wife. confused as hell. eyes drooping from sleep.

"alexander?"

(you promised her, hamilton. you promised her you wouldn't make her feel helpless.)

(i know.)

instead, he chokes a sob, blinks away tears and he fakes a smile. he conjures one last gift from the bottom of his heart for one last time. for her. for eliza.

his gift of words.

"best of wives and best of women," he tells her in an almost gentle yet firm tone and closes the door.

in the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. for just a moment. a yellow sky.

(one two three four five six seven eight nine, goes the count. one two three four five six seven eight nine, goes the paces.)

"ten paces, fire!"

he throws away his shot. he aims for a tree branch, the sun in his eyes, almost binding him. for the first time in his life, he waits for it.

(and for the first time in burr's life, he acts on it.)

"wait—!"

in the eye of the hurricane, there is quiet. for just a moment.

and in the fraction of a second, in a blink of an eye, the hurricane takes him. with a single shot. with one loud bang. one flash of pain and a lifetime of agony.

(not that he'll stick around for that lifetime. he has thrown away his shot after all, hasn't he?)

and while they rowed him back across the hudson, he couldn't help but remember and see clearly in his mind the way eliza half-smiled at him and climbed back inside the bed. a halo, a lighthouse, a beacon of hope in the dark.

the yellow sky that signified the eye of the hurricane, the silence, the peace.

he blinks his eyes, and tries to manage to say something, anything. but with the pain of the bullet buried between his ribs and the transition between consciousness and unconsciousness and the difficulty of breathing and the brilliant red pouring from the wound and down his clothes, soaking him in his own blood, he shuts up.

this is the eye of my hurricane, he thinks.

peace. silence. stillness. quiet.

yes, it is.


End file.
